The Chicken

When I was a youngster, my grandma had chickens in the back yard. I learned how to gather the eyes and avoid the rooster at the same time.

When I was a youngster, my grandma had chickens in the back yard.  I learned how to gather the eyes and avoid the rooster at the same time.

Whenever she would crack the eggs, it was in a separate bowl.  One day I found out why.  She yelled that darn rooster and threw the egg down the sink as it had a red spot of blood in it.  She also kept leftovers to feed the neighborhood cats featuring D.C. as one of them.  DC stood for dumb cat. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she shorted his name.  He would try to jump from tree to tree and would always miss, landing on his head.

One day, she decided we were having fresh chicken for dinner, so I witnessed her taking the chicken by the neck and swinging it around until it broke off.   She meant really fresh chicken.

Years later, when I was the owner of too many chickens, I asked the grandma next door to show me how to pluck the chicken.  I told her I could kill it and I had witnessed it as a youth.  We boiled the chicken to make it easier to plunk (country term for remove the feathers).  She commented that the feed regular people could buy did not fatten the chickens up like at the store.  She was right.  When you ask someone how the frog legs tasted, they usually say like a skinny chicken.  Well, the chickens we prepared were the skinny chickens. 

So we prepared the chickens and they were tasty, just too skinny.  You are probably going yuk by now and wondering how I could complete such a feat.  Well, I grew up skinning deer, helping process pig and cow on the hoof and anything else that was edible.

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